


The Art of War (And Building Really Big Balloons)

by coconutcranberries (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Airships and machiney things, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, BAMF everyone, Derek is a sassmaster in a suit, Drama, Everyone Is Alive, London, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Peter is the Mayor of London, Stiles is an inventor, War Era, enjoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:10:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/coconutcranberries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek stood in the muted quiet of the dank pub, and clenched his fist around the handle of his briefcase. He knew of Stilinski’s reputation, the reputation of his crew. The seedy underbelly of London was far from quiet, and Derek had been hearing whispers for a long time now, whispers of a boy with the ingenuity to make monsters out of metal, creatures of clockwork, ships of steel. That was precisely why Derek was here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of War (And Building Really Big Balloons)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a specific era in mind, mainly because I don't think this specific era actuallly existed. Bit of background: Hale's are quite political. Stiles is the 'leader' of a 'gang' that deals with the more seedy side of London. I put steampunk, but higher class people sort of ignore the machinery and stuff and I don't know, just read it, i guess! Thanks very much :)

The pub was a hole-in-the-wall joint, the kind of place that Derek never frequented if he could help it. The interior was dark and the wallpaper faded; the whole place smelt of cheap tobacco and ale. Candles sputtered and flickered lowly on each round table, and cigarette smoke spiralled up towards the ceiling. Derek let the door thud shut behind him and stepped up to the bar, wincing at each creak of a floorboard. He placed his hand on the worktop and grimaced at the sticky residue, probably some drunkards drool or leftover alcohol. 

The barmaid paid him no mind as she dragged a semi-clean cloth around the insides of a glass. Any lingering temptation to order a drink was wiped from Derek’s mind. He shifted uncomfortably in his suit, which was crisp and finely pressed. He could feel the eyes of several customers on the back of his head, their gazes flickering over his outfit, the steel briefcase in his hand, the shine of his shoes. 

Derek jolted out of his uneasy state as the barmaid slammed the glass down in front of him. She had mismatched eyes; one brown and one blue, and her greasy hair was pulled back in a clumsy knot. 

“Ay, Miriam!” A man called out. There were a group of them huddled near the bar, just a step away from Derek. The speaker was balanced precariously on a barstool, slurring and clutching a flagon to his chest like it was his new-born baby. “Looks like this one’s taken a fancy to you.” The group laughed uproariously and Derek flushed, snapping his mouth shut as Miriam leered at him. 

“I’m looking for Stilinski,” Derek gritted out. The effect was instant; the laughter died out into fearful hiccups, and Miriam stepped back, dropping her cloth in shock. 

“’Ere, bit of advice, lad.” The man leaned forward, half of his weight balanced on the bar. Derek leaned back automatically as beer sloshed out of the man’s flagon, dripping onto the floor. The pub was strangely quiet; gone were the grunts of conversation and the careless clinking of glasses. “Don’t mess with that kid, or ‘is mates. He’s got a ‘andful of ‘em, but they’s fierce and all. You best be leaving ‘em to it.” 

Derek stood in the muted quiet of the dank pub, and clenched his fist around the handle of his briefcase. He knew of Stilinski’s reputation. The seedy underbelly of London was far from quiet, and Derek had been hearing whispers for a long time now, whispers of a boy with the ingenuity to make monsters out of metal, creatures of clockwork, ships of steel. That was precisely why Derek was here. 

Derek took a deep breath and turned away from the man, facing Miriam. “I’m looking for Stilinski. He told me to ask at the bar.” Nobody spoke, and Miriam’s face was pale, her lips pursed together in a thin line. Derek sighed. “If what you’ve heard is true, then I suggest you take your own advice, and leave him to his own business. And if what you just told me is also true, then I gather that he does not like to be kept waiting.” 

If possible, Miriam’s face grew paler. She pulled at a section of the bar, and it rose up on hinges, allowing him access. Derek stifled his noise of surprise, and strode through. The bar slapped back into place, and Miriam scuttled backwards as he drew near, pointing through a door at the back of the bar, beside a rack of bottles. 

“He’s through there. Up the stairs, second door to your left.” Derek couldn’t hide his surprise at Miriam’s voice, which was light and sweet, much softer than he had expected. He opened his mouth to thank her, but she had already rushed away, scooping up the cloth from the floor as she went. 

The hallway behind the door was just as unappealing as the rest of the pub, and each stair creaked ominously as Derek made his way up the staircase. The walls were papered with a hefty coating of mould, and the candles flickered in their holders. Remarkably, it actually felt warmer the further up he went, despite the cold appearance. 

Derek stopped outside of the second door. There was a strip of yellow light in the gap beneath the door, and a handful of faded letters were painted on the wooden surface. Derek couldn’t tell if it was supposed to spell something in the English language, but he doubted it. There was a strange clanking sound filtering through the wood, accompanied by pained hisses, and a yelp. 

Derek steeled himself, and knocked. 

The door swung open almost immediately, and Derek came face to face with a tall, lithe man with a shock of brown hair. He had pale, creamy skin that was smudged with grease and dirt, and his form was obscured, but not hidden, by a light shirt and brown, cotton trousers. He was also wearing an extremely large pair of eye-goggles on his face. They magnified his eyes to thrice the usual size, and Derek reeled back in surprise. 

“Oh!” The man shushed himself, flapping his hand around his face like a fan. “You must be Derek, no-last-name-needed.” 

Derek almost flushed, but drew himself back up instead. The obscurity was a necessity, and concealing his last name was the only way to get a second letter from Stilinski, let alone a meeting. “I am, I was supposed to meet Stilinski?” 

The man grinned and shoved his goggles up his face so that they perched on top of his head. Derek couldn’t help but admire the googles. They were made of bronze metal, with little dials and cogs intricately placed along the rim of the glass. Derek was no stranger to the slightly less talked about mechanics of the city, but he had only seen craftsmanship like this a few times. It was beautiful. 

“You are welcome to come in,” the man was saying, when Derek tore his eyes away from the goggles. “Just mind the pipes.” 

“Pipes?” Derek repeated, puzzled. The question became pointless once Derek stepped inside the room, and he stood gaping on the doormat. 

The floorboards gleamed; each one made of bright, polished bronze and held in place with shining silver screws. There was a giant, elaborate round candelabra swinging lowly from the ceiling, but instead of candles, little glass cylinders stood in their place, fizzing and popping with an unnatural sort of light. Along one wall was a rickety wooden set of chair and a table that sat low on the floor. It was pockmarked with burns and splatters of wax, and littered with nails and bits of wood and twistings of metal. 

That wasn’t even counting the machines. Or the gaping hole in the floor. 

“It leads to the room below, or it would, if we could remove the pipes.” The man stepped around Derek, who was still standing transfixed in the doorway. The floorboards around the hole were badly burned, like someone had taken a giant cigarette and stubbed it out in this room. A maze of copper pipes glinted in the hole, snaking their way beneath the room. Derek wondered absently what they were for, and if Miriam knew what these people had done to her room. 

“Why would you want to remove the pipes?” Derek inquired, edging around the hole. “Surely you could just put in new floorboards.” 

The man snorted, and muttered, “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” 

Derek decided not to address that. He had other issues to tackle. “What did you say your name was, again?” 

“Stiles Stilinski,” The man replied, grinning over at him. Derek almost tripped backwards in shock. 

“You’re Stiles Stilinski?” Derek wasn’t sure if he should be horrified or not, but before he could decide, the door banged open behind him and a stream of people staggered in, laughing and speaking over one another. The first man came to a halt when he saw Derek, his brown eyes widening in surprise. He looked to be the same age as the supposed Stiles Stilinski, with olive skin and buckled straps criss-crossing all over his clothes. 

“Stiles?” The stranger sounded wary, but his expression was calm, his stance strong. “Is everything okay?” 

Stilinski waved a dismissive hand, beckoning the group over. “Of course it is. This is Derek, our newest client. Derek, this is Scott McCall, my right-hand man.” 

Scott McCall wavered visibly for a moment, before his face eased into a smile and he stepped forward, and held a hand out for Derek to shake. Derek shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other, shook Scott’s hand, and then glanced hesitantly at the rest of the group. Normally, Derek would not consider himself such a timid person, but he was already on edge from what was about to occur and he was, admittedly, a little out of his depth. 

“It’s good to meet you,” Scott said kindly. “I apologise for the state we are all in, we just returned from a business trip.” 

Derek blinked. There were two women and four men in the company, if one included Scott, and each one, although extraordinarily different in looks, were in identical states of disarray. One of the women, a blonde dressed in a large amount of leather, was caked with dirt from head to toe and a tall man with a mass of blonde curls was sporting a cut lip. 

The blonde woman scoffed. “I doubt it’s the kind of business trip that he’s familiar with.” 

Derek bristled. It wasn’t exactly untrue; he was more of a print and paper kind of person now, but he had had his fair share of shady dealings in the past. That was, until Peter dragged him into the public eye. 

“Erica, don’t bite the hand that feeds,” Stiles said cheerfully, although his grin was a little too sharp to be genuinely happy. “Or should I say, don’t bite the hand that pays.” 

“Besides, if he’s here for our services, then he must know something about our ‘business trips’, if that’s what we’re calling them.” A very bulky man in tight-fitted clothing sneered at Derek, his arms crossed against his chest. “Either that or he’s just stupid.” 

“Perhaps,” said the red-headed woman beside him, who was staring at Derek with something not unlike recognition in her piercing eyes. “Or perhaps our cover has not held quite as well as we had hoped.” 

“It’s held, I would have known by now if not.” The man leaning against the closed door had black skin, intense eyes, and an abundance of muscles. His shirt was ripped all the way down the left side. Derek could very easily see how these people had gotten the kind of reputation that they had, even if it was, apparently, just a cover. 

Derek kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t stupid, or useless, or unable to take care of himself. He was, in fact, quite the opposite, but he also knew something about picking your battles, and starting a fight with anybody would not get him the help that he desperately needed. 

It was with that desperation in mind, that Derek deliberately turned his back on the sneering man and the scoffing blonde. Scott had moved to stand next to Stiles, who was watching him intently. Derek let him look, and raised an eyebrow when Stiles seemed content to let the silence stew. 

“I do need your help,” Derek said eventually, fighting hard to keep his voice even. It was difficult to keep the panic from bubbling up inside him. Even talking about this was dangerous, let alone actually pitching his plan, or putting it into action. “And as I stated in your letter, I am willing to pay you for your troubles, although it may not be in the most conventional of methods.” 

There was an immediate outbreak of protest among the group, but Derek refused to turn around. Stilinski removed his goggles completely, turning them over and over in his hands. He chewed his lip, and then fixed Derek with a somewhat regretful gaze. “My apologies, but my crew is correct here. We only accept hard cash.” Stiles shrugged. “It’s hard enough getting by in this city with what we do; we need to be sure that our efforts are well worth the reward.” 

Derek shook his head. “This isn’t like that. I’m not saying that I won’t reward you for-”

“Hey, you heard the man.” Erica cut across him, striding across the room to join them. The rest of the group followed, leaving Derek on his own, facing them. “Get lost.” 

“I just-”

“You need to leave.” 

“This is important-”

“Seriously, just get out before-”

“The reward already belongs to you,” Derek roared, his impatience getting the better of him. He dropped the briefcase to the ground with a clatter that rang out harshly in the confused, slightly stunned silence. They had obviously taken him to be placid, as well as stupid. Derek took a deep breath, scrubbing a hand through his black hair.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Stiles asked quietly. His voice was low, intense, and Derek looked up to see everyone’s gazes pinned to him. 

“Just listen to me,” Derek let out in a rush. “The reward I have to offer you is something that you want, something that was taken from you roughly a year ago.” 

Stiles’ face went white as chalk, and the red-head inhaled sharply. Scott stilled beside his friend, frowning at Derek. 

“Your reputation is impressive,” Derek said. His words blurred together as he spoke quickly. “But as I understand it, it is also partly fabricated. The rumours of your strength and ruthlessness as thieves and con artists and brutes are vast. But you buried one rumour under these part-lies; among one of you is a builder, an inventor of sorts.” 

The curly-haired man coughed, and muttered, “I told you it was obvious once you were in here,” under his breath. Scott stepped on his foot.

Stiles held up his hands, and Derek felt his throat close up in fear. He couldn’t afford for these people to turn him away, he didn’t have the resources or strength to defeat his Uncle on his own. 

“Let’s just take a breath, and sit down,” Stiles said slowly. He was still pale and obviously rattled. Derek closed his eyes briefly in relief, allowing a tiny sigh to escape, although his shoulders remained tense. There was a beat of silence wherein nobody moved, but eventually the red-head sighed impatiently. She marched toward Derek and curled a small, but strong hand around his bicep, tugging him towards the table along the far wall. 

“My name is Lydia, or Miss Martin, if you would prefer,” She announced, forcing him into a seat. “Obviously you have made your introductions to Stiles and Scott.” They both came forward hastily as she said their names, dropping into the nearest chairs. “And then we have Erica Reyes, who kindly invited you to get lost, and her intended, who prefers to be known as Boyd.” 

Erica rolled her eyes and hooked her boot around the leg of the nearest chair, turning it backwards and sitting astride it. The tall, black man with the deep voice came to stand behind her, one hand resting on Erica’s shoulder. He nodded once at Derek and Derek nodded back, feeling his panic recede slightly with each introduction. That was Boyd, then. 

“The imbecile playing with the pipes is Isaac Lahey,” Lydia continued, drawing Derek’s attention to the curly-haired blonde, who has indeed moved to kneel over the hole in the floor. 

“I just want to check the screws again,” Lahey argued, waving one hand over his shoulder. “They were a little loose this morning.” 

Lydia tutted, but settled herself at the table. “Jackson is my intended, and also the idiot who implied that you were stupid.” Jackson sneered at Derek from across the room, but grudgingly walked towards them as Lydia raised an eyebrow. He dropped into a seat and lounged back as if he owned it- which for all Derek knew, he did. 

When everyone was seated, Lydia stopped talking, turning her attention to Stiles instead. Stiles looked slightly uncomfortable under her scrutiny, fidgeting before he cleared his throat. “I probably should have done that from the beginning, in all honesty.”

There were several snorts of laughter, and Isaac laughed loudly with his head practically inside the floor, which echoed. 

Stiles pulled a face, and Derek felt the beginnings of a smile growing. It faded with Stiles next sentence, but Derek was simply astounded that it had been there at all; he had not had much to smile about lately. 

“Now that you are acquainted with who we are, perhaps you would be as kind as to tell us your full name.” Stiles leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “It might be nice to know what you want us to do, too.” Stiles winked, obviously teasing, but Derek was too caught up in the first jittering’s of fear to truly notice. 

“My name is Derek Hale,” Derek said softly. He was conscious of the way everyone’s jaws dropped, the way their eyes widened, the noise Isaac made as he hit his head on one of the pipes in surprise. It wasn’t every day that your seedy client revealed himself as the nephew of the Mayor of London. “And I need you to help me stop a war, a war of your making.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated, and lots of criticism please :) I hope y'all enjoyed it though! :)


End file.
